Trucks

Every morning fighting through a coma Each affliction carries its misnomer Trucks roll loud into the port They go where I could never know My toes are freezing The cold cuts through the Persian rug I’ve stolen, dad thinks that I’ve borrowed He gives more than I can pay back 22, I’ll never pay it back Ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths Floating in the rainwater with pill bags It’s winter south of the river without a job And I don’t see it getting any better Empty bottles, if not for the burnt butts Falling over, the wind in from the coast cuts Hard and sharp, messes up my hair Leaves fall peppering the air Ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths Floating in the rainwater with pill bags It’s winter south of the river without a job And I don’t see it getting any better